


SAFE COMPARISONS

by vonklutz



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Humor, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 07:20:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14848250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vonklutz/pseuds/vonklutz
Summary: “Whyon God’s green Earth would we get married, Connor?”“Why wouldn’t we?”





	SAFE COMPARISONS

The first marriage between an android and a human happens on December 13th, 2038. It is aired on live television, like a royal wedding, though the two involved are far from royalty. It is between a KL900 and a patient of her social care. It is a Monday, in the evening, and watching the broadcast intently are Connor and Hank, having since the events a month prior come to a pleasant joint-living arrangement. They watch television. They solve cases. Life goes on.

Hank is reclining on the sofa, wearing an expression Connor can only describe as “unreadable.” This is strange, because Hank has a rather obvious tendency to project his emotions around him in any way he can. His cards are always on the table, _unless_ one were to ask him something personal, in which case: nothing, nada, zilch. It all works out, though, because Connor has an equally obvious tendency to pry or sleuth until he’s discovered the answer to whatever he was going to ask anyway. But now, he isn’t quite sure of the question.

He tests the waters. “Is something wrong, Lieutenant?”

Hank looks up at him, possibly a little peeved at Connor’s insistence in continuing to refer to him by his title, rather than his name. (He hasn’t said anything about it, but Connor isn’t certain it would be a good idea to bring it up. Not now, in any case.) He gives Connor a _look_ , which is more recognizable as a mix of annoyance and confusion. “No. Why?”

“You look. . .” Connor still can’t think of the word. Or words. “I don’t know.” Oh, wait. There. “Troubled? Anxious?”

“ _Anxious_ ,” Hank says derisively. “Why would I be anxious? This is beautiful,” he says, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the screen. “Progress. Fantastic.”

Even to Connor’s ear, untrained to the intricacies of human emotional expression, Hank does not sound as though he finds it beautiful. But Connor knows better than to ask, and files it away into his mind as something to bring up later. Perhaps when Hank is in a better mood. For the moment, he directs his attention back to the television. He settles into his chair, kicking back the footrest, and feeling a little out of place.

Sumo sniffs around, weaving between the furniture. He pushes his snout into Connor’s palm, and Connor scratches him behind the ears. “Did you feed him his glucosamine?”

“ _Yes_.”

“His antibiotics?”

“ _Yes_ , Connor. Now, will you let me watch this?”

“Of course.”

“ _Thank_ you.”

Connor feels like he’s been transported into those first few days they’d been working together, when Hank was stubborn and combative and quite difficult to get along with. Back then, they didn’t live together, but it almost feels the same.

Connor wonders if he’s done something wrong, then the thought hits him: Maybe Hank is sensitive to the subject of marriage. Connor has no other situations to compare it to; it had never come up prior to this. But it seems to be an appropriate reason for the way Hank is acting. Connor decides to test his theory. He asks a personal question, Hank’s consent implied.

“Have you ever been married, Lieutenant?” he says. It would not be very difficult for him to check, but that might be an invasion of Hank’s privacy. No, Connor would rather ask questions and poke at Hank’s belongings for the answer (the latter of which he is already prepared to do).

“Oh, Jesus.” Hank laughs lowly, shaking his head. “You know, I’d tell you to mind your own business, but I’m sure you’d manage to figure it out no matter what I say, huh? _Damn_ you.” Hypothesis correct: marriage is a sore spot. “ _No_ , Connor, I wasn’t.”

What about his son? Born out of wedlock? Maybe-- it’s no matter. Connor turns Hank’s response over in his head for a second. “Would you like to be?”

Hank looks at Connor almost pointedly, giving him the most bewildered expression of which he seems to be capable. “What the hell kind of a question is that?”

Connor hums. “A proposal.”

“ _What_ are you--” Hank turns off the television. “Are you _proposing_ to me?”

Connor considers this. Maybe he is. He rolls with it. “Sure. There are plenty of reasons why. Tax marital deductions, health practicalities, health _insurance_ , hospital visitation rights, Social Security benefits, and a host of positive effects on mental and physical health.” 

Hank’s head rolls back on the sofa, mouth almost in a sneer. “Oh, I get it,” he says. “You’re insane. Ha. Not gonna humor you.”

Connor sticks with his guns (which, he might add, were placed in his hands). “There’s nothing humorous about what seems to be a fairly beneficial arrangement for the both of us.”

Hank holds his arms up, fingers posed in double-Ls, as if framing a shot. “In- _sane_. Cannot be reasoned with.”

“I feel my proposal is reasonable, Lieutenant.”

“ _Lieutenant_. You call me that in the same breath as asking me to _marry_ you?” (Connor scolds himself internally.) “You are insane! We’re not--” He gestures again, becoming increasingly animated. “We are not _together_ , Connor.”

“But we are partners.”

“Not that kind of. . .” Hank starts. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “You just don’t seem to be getting this. Or you’re trying not to. Or you’re trying to _kill_ me.”

“I sleep in your bed, Lieutenant.”

“Unfortunately, you do!” Hank says. In the duration of the exchange, he has begun to pace. He bats his temples between his hands. “ _Why_ on God’s green Earth would we get married, Connor?”

“Why wouldn’t we?”

Hank groans so morosely that Sumo’s head perks up. “Down, boy,” he says. “No. No, Connor. Absolutely not.” Hank tilts his head suddenly. “You know what? Maybe.”

“Really?”

“No!”

Connor, in true Connor fashion, doesn’t drop the subject. “In all fairness, Lieutenant, you haven’t given me a good reason why we shouldn’t.”

Hank, in true Hank fashion, responds, swearing like a sailor. “In all fairness, Connor, it’s a stupid idea and I don’t have to fucking justify myself.”

“Hank, you’re very agitated. Maybe we should continue this conversation another time.”

“No, we will _not_.” Yes, they would. “But you’re right! Let’s _drop it_.”

“Okay.”

“Okay!” Hank says, with a horrible sense of finality in his tone. He stands for a moment, looking triumphant and ridiculous, with arms crossed. Then he slumps, and sighs. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

Connor smiles. “Not a chance.”

“Okay,” Hank repeats, voice cracking, as though he were on a bender. “Maybe. Let’s just watch the rest of that wedding on TV, for now.”

“Sure, Hank,” Connor says. And they do.


End file.
